I tugged on a pair of cozy red striped socks and got to work arranging the few belongings I’d brought with me. It didn’t take long to organize my clothes and the handful of important items that I had stuffed in my suitcase in my haste to leave, like my collection of design books, my flower bible, and my favorite photo with me and my parents. The photo had been taken six months before their accident and shows the portrait of a happy family. My father is holding me on his hip while my mother is kissing my cheek and leaning into us. They look joyful and free. It’s how I’ve always remembered them and how I wish my marriage could have been.
Running my fingers along the edges of the silver frame, I let out a sigh and placed the photo on the top of the dresser. There was a collection of family photos resting on the homey birch wood—pictures of me and Elin at flower shows, a snapshot from my college graduation where I’m tossing my cap in the air and wearing a lei of orchids Elin had made for the day, and a collection of photos from my childhood. As I made room for the picture of my parents I noticed a small frame near the back. It contained a photo of Elin with a man who I didn’t know but seemed slightly familiar. She had to be young at the time the photo was taken, maybe in her late twenties. The man looked to be about the same age with a tall frame and muscular build. His arm was wrapped tight around Elin’s shoulder while she was staring up at him with dewy eyes and holding a dozen red roses. I didn’t remember ever seeing the picture, and I knew with certainty that Elin had never mentioned a boyfriend or former love. Who was the man? I would have to ask Elin later.
My cell phone buzzed on the nightstand. I returned the picture to its place and went to see who was texting me. No surprise. It was Chad. He’d been jamming my phone with messages since I passed through Montana. The latest message was a lament about how sorry he was, how he had received the divorce paperwork and wouldn’t I please reconsider. For a brief moment I felt sorry for him. But then I read on as he pleaded for financial support and complained about how he was going to have to get a job to afford rent and groceries. Welcome to my world.
I deleted the texts and pulled on a pair of jeans and a turtleneck. Portland’s mild winters meant that I probably didn’t even need a sweater. What a concept. Had it really only been a couple of weeks ago that I was tugging on extra layers to walk down the hall?
See you never, I said to my winter parka as I hung it in the back of the closet and headed downstairs.
Elin was dressed and boiling eggs when I came into the kitchen. “Good morning, how did you sleep?” She handed me a steaming mug of coffee.
“Great. Really great.” I took the coffee without mentioning that I typically started my days with a cup of Earl Grey. I had a feeling that being back in Portland was quickly going to make me a coffee convert. With the steaming mug wrapped between my hands I sat at the circular dining table. Her kitchen reminded me of her cottage. The windowsill was lined with pots of fresh herbs. A rustic chandelier with taper candles hung above the dining table. The space was small and free of clutter. “Can I help you with something?”
“No. No, you sit. I’m making eggs and toast.”
“It smells delicious. I can’t remember the last time someone made me breakfast.”
Elin turned and frowned. “I’d like to have a little conversation with Chad.”
I chuckled. “I’d like that, too. You know he’s terrified of you.”
She lifted an egg from the boiling water and set it in a ceramic egg cup. Memories of my childhood came flooding back. My favorite part of breakfast used to be cracking the top of the egg with a tiny spoon. Chad didn’t like boiled eggs so I’d given them up. That seemed to be the theme of my life—giving up what I wanted for him. Why had I done that for so long?
“Terrified of me?” Elin interrupted my moment of self-pity as she placed the egg in front of me and handed me a spoon. “Why?”
I shrugged and tapped the top of the egg. “I think he’s intimidated by strong women.”
“You’re a strong woman, Britta.” She sat next to me.
“I haven’t been.” I shook my head.
Elin deftly cracked her egg in one fluid motion. “We’ll have to work on that too, won’t we?”
“Yeah.” I scooped a bite of the hot egg into my spoon and devoured it. It tasted like stepping back in time. “Hey, I noticed an old photo of you and a very handsome man on the dresser upstairs.”
Tucking her hair behind her ears, she forced a smile. “That was a long time ago. An old friend.”
I could tell she didn’t want to say more, so I dropped it for the moment. “Did you look over Frank Jaffe’s offer?” I asked, changing the subject.
She rubbed her temples. “There’s nothing for me to consider. I’m not selling Blomma to Frank or any other developer.”
“Do you think any of the other owners are seriously considering selling?”
Elin rose and walked over to the oven. She removed a tray of golden brown toast. “I don’t know.” Her shoulders slumped. “I don’t think so, but you know how people get with money.”
“Are you worried?”
She returned to the table with a stack of toast, butter, and honey. “I have a bad feeling about it. I’m not sure why.”
I buttered a slice of toast. “I’m here to help however I can, so just let me know what you need me to do.”
Reaching across the table, she laid her hand on top of mine. Her hand was rough and calloused from years of using gardening tools. “This isn’t your worry, Britta. I’m so pleased to have help at Blomma. That’s all I need from you.”
We dropped the subject and chatted about the floral jewelry workshop she was hosting in the cottage later. The class would be our test run before the launch party. Some of the participants would have a chance to model their designs at the bash. Elin had been creating botanical rings, necklaces, and earrings as an alternative to corsages or as accessories for bridal parties and runway shows. Using succulents, tendrils from passion vines, and small blossoms, she weaved gorgeous floral jewelry that was as visually stunning as it was fragrant. She was credited with starting the trend, not just in Portland but throughout the international floral community. Being a leader in the industry took a certain kind of person, a person like Elin. She was confident in her skill and knowledge, willing to share her expertise and celebrate her students’ success.
She was highly sought after, receiving invitations to teach in Tokyo and Paris. Opening the cottage would allow her to expand her reach and having me to run the shop would mean that she could actually travel and bring her designs to far corners of the world.
After breakfast we gathered our things and headed to the waterfront. When we arrived in Riverplace Village, I unloaded a box of dried herbs. “I’ll open Blomma and get everything in order while you meet with everyone at Demitasse.”
She frowned and glanced down the cobblestone street where a few business owners had already begun to gather. “Wish me luck.”
“Lycka till!” I called, wishing her luck in Swedish. Hopefully she wouldn’t need it.
Why would anyone give this up? I thought, pausing to admire the view. A misty fog hung above the river. Winter finches flitted between cherry trees. Candy-colored raincoats broke through the shimmering sky. A running club, clad in matching yellow spandex, sprinted past me, waving and calling “good morning.” I smiled and returned their greeting.
It was a good morning. It was the first morning of my new life.
Blomma was dark when I unlocked the front doors. I flipped on the lights, unfolded the sandwich board, and stood it outside on the sidewalk. We wouldn’t open for customers for another hour. Elin had explained that she used the time in the early morning to assemble online orders, take care of corporate accounts, and map out a delivery schedule for the day. I tossed my cell phone, keys, and purse on the workstation. My first agenda item was to prep the materials for the jewelry workshop Elin would be hosting later in the day. I headed to the workshop to grab her supply list.
The barn doors to the cottage were both open. Odd.
Maybe Elin forgot to shut them after the meeting last night, I thought as I stepped inside.
The space felt cold. A shiver ran up my spine. Maybe I should have worn a sweater after all. As I flipped on the lights, a new wave of chills erupted. These chills weren’t from the cold. No sweater or winter parka could help. These chills were from the sight of Frank Jaffe’s body sprawled on the cottage floor with a pair of shears stabbed into his chest.
Chapter Five
This couldn’t be happening. Was this some kind of practical joke? A bizarre form of initiation to welcome me home?
I scanned the fragrant cottage. It smelled of roses and death. No, Elin would never do something like that to me. Frank must really be dead.
I stepped closer, inching around a pile of discarded rose stems. It wasn’t like Elin to leave the cottage a mess. I knew I’d been away for a while, but I also knew that my aunt was meticulous when it came to design and cleanliness. My foot kicked a scarlet red rose. I looked down and realized that roses were scattered all over the cement floor. Each bloodred rose had been snipped off and beheaded. I recognized the heirloom variety as Deep Secret. Deep Secret was the darkest of all roses, with buds the color of night. It bloomed with a perfect scarlet finish, velvety petals, and intense fragrance which made it highly sought after for flower arrangements.
Seeing the tea roses scattered around Frank’s lifeless body gave them a new and sinister feeling. I shuddered and moved closer to him. Black, dead roses were mixed in with the Deep Secret roses. Where in the world would dead roses have come from? We don’t keep dead flowers in the shop. I tried to wrap my mind around what I was seeing.
I bent over. Upon closer inspection I realized that Elin’s garden shears had punctured his stomach. Blood, the color of the roses, seeped from his abdomen and pooled on the floor. Sweat dampened my brow and my neck began to flush and tighten. How could Frank be dead? I’d just seen him last night. And why was he in Elin’s cottage? He had stormed out of the meeting early. Had he come back later?
Was this really happening? I couldn’t focus. The room looked fuzzy and off-center.
Breathe, Britta, I told myself, as I blinked and concentrated on Frank. The color had drained from his face. His lips had a blueish tint. For a brief second I considered trying to administer CPR, but something inside me nudged me toward the telephone instead. A glass bowl filled with shiny pebbles had been knocked on the floor, leaving shattered remnants and tiny rocks everywhere. Had Frank been in some kind of a fight before he was stabbed? Maybe a lovers’ spat? From the looks of the cottage he must have. Elin’s supplies were strewn about on the top of the oversized workspace. Scissors, ribbons, garland, pinecones, and shredded flowers littered the floor. I almost slipped on a piece of broken glass as I made my way to the back of the cottage where Elin had set up a small desk.
Did she have a phone back here? I’d left my cell in the front. For a brief second I considered leaving Frank, but then I spotted a vintage rotary phone on the corner of the desk. Did it work? I picked it up and brought the receiver to my ear, not knowing whether it was functional or simply another of Elin’s design touches. To my surprise I heard the low, dull buzz of a dial tone. I quickly looped my finger through the holes and dialed 911.
A dispatcher answered on the first ring. “Nine one one, what’s your emergency?”
“I’m at Blomma and a man has been stabbed,” I burst out.
The dispatcher slowed the cadence of her speech. “Take a breath. Let’s start with your name and location.”
I tried to mimic her tone and inhaled through my nose. Glancing at my hands I realized they were trembling. “I’m Britta Johnston and I’m at Blomma.”
“What’s the street address or nearest cross street?”
I glanced out the leaded glass window. What was the address? I should have known it, but I didn’t. The Willamette River was the only thing I could see from the window. “It’s a flower shop on the waterfront,” I said to the dispatcher. “But I’m not sure what the address is. We’re in Riverplace Village.”
“Okay. I’ll find it,” the dispatcher continued to speak in a calm, even tone. “You said that someone has been stabbed?” she repeated.
I explained my early arrival and finding Frank. She asked me a handful of questions about Frank’s condition that I couldn’t answer, like whether he had a pulse. Maybe I should have been more thorough before I called for help.
“There’s an ambulance on its way, but I need you to stay on the line and help assess the patient with me.”
The word “patient” made me cringe. Frank looked more like a victim to me. “I can’t,” I said into the receiver.
“Can’t what?” The hum of background conversations and ringing phones in the emergency services department came through the line.
“I can’t stay on the line,” I replied, examining the foot-long cord attached to the vintage phone. “I’m on a rotary.”
“Portland hipsters,” I heard the dispatcher scoff under her breath.
I wanted to tell her that Elin and her European style boutique were distinctly not hipster, but she instructed me to put the phone down and check for a pulse. Getting any nearer to Frank’s body wasn’t high on my list. It had been evident since I opened the cottage door that Frank was dead, but I obliged and sidestepped the roses and debris. Kneeling next to Frank made me almost lose my morning coffee. His wrist was cold to the touch as I felt for any trace of a heartbeat. Unsurprisingly there wasn’t one.
He smelled of expensive cologne. I didn’t remember him wearing cologne last night. After years of working in the floral industry I had honed my nose to be able to pick out almost any scent. The spicy cologne mingled with the delicate roses and metallic smell of blood, making for a surreal combination. Much like this morning thus far, I thought to myself.
Frank wore the same cashmere overcoat that he had had on last night. The coat was stained with blood spatter. I tried to avoid looking at the shears gashed into his abdomen as I reached up and placed two fingers on his neck. I knew that finding a pulse was a futile effort, but I wanted to be thorough for the dispatcher. Like his wrist Frank’s neck was like ice. How long had he been like this?
I was about to return to the phone when I noticed a Deep Secret rose tucked into the breast pocket of Frank’s coat. There was so much blood that I hadn’t seen it earlier. Nor had I seen a note written on a ripped piece of paper. Could the note be a confession left by Frank’s killer, or was it possible that Frank had stabbed himself?
Without thinking I reached for the note and opened it. The note had been written by hand on a piece of stationery from the Riverplace Inn. It read: “You are my one and only.”
What did that mean? Had Frank been meeting a secret lover in Blomma? Nothing made sense.
I tucked the note back in his pocket. The dispatcher had said that an ambulance and I assumed the police were on their way, and while I’d never seen a gruesome death up close like this, I knew enough from watching detective movies that tampering with any potential evidence was a bad idea.
“He’s not breathing and doesn’t have a pulse,” I reported to the dispatcher.
Thankfully she didn’t ask me to do anything else with Frank’s body and stayed on the line until I heard sirens wailing on the street in front of Blomma. The next few minutes passed in a blur. A crew of EMS workers raced into the cottage and immediately began surveying the scene. They were followed shortly after by a young police officer wearing a standard blue uniform and a distinguished man, who I presumed to be a detective, wearing a charcoal gray suit. The man in the suit made eye contact with the police officer and nodded in my direction.
While everyone huddled around Frank’s body the police officer made his way to me. My mouth felt dry and my throat tightened even more. Suddenly everything became very real. Frank was dead and I had found his body.
I tried to swallow but my tongue was like sand
.
“Are you okay, Ma’am?”
Ma’am? I thought, swallowing again and trying to force my scratchy throat open. I knew I wasn’t in my twenties anymore, but Ma’am?
“Do you need some water or something?” the policer officer asked, glancing around the room.
“I’m fine.” I cleared my throat.
“You sure? You look kind of . . .” he trailed off.
I wondered what he was going to say. Thirsty? Shaken? Both were true, but I coughed and managed a smile. “I’m okay, really.”
“All right well, I’m Officer Iwamoto here assisting Detective Fletcher.” He pointed to the guy in the suit. It wasn’t hard to deduce that Detective Fletcher was in charge. He strolled around Frank’s body making notes on a yellow legal pad. “Did you place the 911 call?” the police officer asked.
I nodded. “Yeah, I’m Britta.” I held out my hand, which was still twitchy.
Officer Iwamoto shook my hand and gave me a reassuring smile. He was of Asian descent with a cherubic face and bright brown eyes. I would guess that he must be a recent graduate of the police academy from his boyish face. “Your first crime scene?” he asked, releasing my hand.
“Is it obvious?” I stuffed my hands in my jean pockets in hopes of masking my nerves.
He leaned closer and whispered. “To tell you the truth, this is only my third official crime scene. I mean, I did a bunch of training on simulated scenes while I was at the academy, but seeing someone like that in real life is totally different.” He motioned to Frank’s body.
Detective Fletcher caught us looking at him and gave Officer Iwamoto a look that meant business. “Right.” He reached into his uniform and removed a small spiral notebook and pen. “I get teased all the time for being old school, but my dad is—well, was—a cop too, and he never went anywhere without a notepad. He taught me everything I know, and always says that everything you need to solve a case you can find in your notes.”
Natural Thorn Killer Page 4